Remember, Remembered, Remembering
by Ashes of Stars
Summary: Prelude to ‘No perfect answer to something asked’. Harry contemplates over memories that just don’t seem to make sense, and somehow there is Malfoy affecting it all. Why is there blonde? Why is there a shiver at the thought of Malfoy?


To disclaim: I do not own Harry Potter, all rights are JK Rowling's and all company's related. I do not commit plagiarism here, nor is it intended to do so, this is original work. I only borrow characters and reference to books by JKR.

Summary: Prelude to 'No perfect answer to something asked'. Harry contemplates over memories that just don't seem to make sense, and somehow there is Malfoy affecting it all. Why is there blonde? Why is there a shiver at the thought of Malfoy and how does this all fit into how Harry gets so obsessed to Draco in HBP?

This is the epilogue to 'No perfect answer-' but is disguised

as a prologue.

Harry, within the confines of a daze, spent the better part of the last hours in Ron's room looking out of the window at the misty space around the house he was partly living in. A faint disappointment washed over him, causing what he believed to be…remorse? Something didn't make sense, he had convinced himself to be strong over Cedric, strong over Sirius and even more so tough against the ever appearing reminders of Voldemort and the ever present threat he posed on the world, the happy go lucky world that once was. Shattered by the feelings, Harry let himself brood well into the night, expecting whilst wishing upon waiting for an answer to a puzzle that faded coldly in his mind. The pieces were there, all turned on their multi fashioned fronts and only showing their brown shapeless backs; the cardboard upon which lay a motif and design to greet and please on ones birthday. All attempts to stop Harry from looking out the window ceased to be successful, especially as the early hours of the morning rolled on, where the misty black sky still darkened every crevice and object caused everyone inside the Burrow to sleep.

Harry would not sleep though, as something akin to a memory flooded his mind, insistent that he _remember_, but remember what he wasn't sure and he wasn't about to stick a hand out to the ominous cloud in his mind to find out exactly what his brain wanted him to understand. There where white shadows, which contrasted with blue of a very royal colour, making the white which almost (if Harry thought about it enough) look blonde. But, Harry thought, what was blonde? It seemed ridiculous to even contemplate such things; what is blonde? But never the less he persisted as if it was something he had temporary lapse on, like when he played muggle scrabble with Hermione and knew he had the right letters to form a winning adjective but couldn't quite remember what that word was.

A break in the mist outside the window sent slivers of moonlight into the room, to which Harry responded by gazing at one of the beams thoughtfully. Definitely something like moonlight tricks me tonight, he thought. Like a speed of sound Harry was remembering something quite clearly now, because unlike the rest of his tricky memories he could clearly remember a time this past summer, sitting on a bench by the London Thames, staring into the distance as if romantically gazing upon a lovers leave sorrowfully. But why, he thought sadly. He couldn't remember anything of importance of before the moment his consciousness snapped into place and hurriedly remembering that he was supposed to be back at his Aunt and Uncles soon, gathered up his pride and continued on his way home from London. Harry being Harry and not wanting to admit that he was possibly confused about his rather rash actions at being let out of the Dursley's for the day, ignored that he couldn't remember anything from the day except a long tube journey, coffee, heavily black clad people and something that left a rather salty and alcoholic taste in his mouth. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember why he would have a salty and alcoholic taste in his mouth but he put it down to having drinking… margarita of something like that. Unbeknownst to Harry, he didn't know what a margarita was before that day he remembered by the Thames but he wasn't about to admit that to himself was he?

Finally defeated, Harry gave a sigh and wandered to the hard mattress he slept on whilst at the Burrow. It really wasn't much, but to Harry it was the world, even if it did give him cramp in the neck and back. Harry would never complain about it, never. He had spent way to much time in a barely there wardrobe, slept to many nights on the springs of a bed-cot and received to many punishments to take for granted the Weasleys accommodating family attitude towards him. He was a son and a brother, that's all the mattered. Not the hard mattress or the funny floral sheets he laid upon to sleep. Harry suddenly remembered when Mrs. Weasley had given him the honourable rights to the bed he now slept on, she had said that if there was anywhere he was more welcome to sleep, she would sign the rights of the house to Harry himself. As it turned out Harry would never feel more at home than in that kitchen downstairs, or flying out in the field with the others he knew as his surrogate siblings, or in that bed where he had begun to treasure ever miniscule moments, until the joys of having a real family to belong to kicked in again at the beginning of the day. There was however, a nice knew feeling that over took him as he remembered the way he felt when… when something happened and somehow he knew it was involving a bed because there was slight guilt at the fact he no longer believed this was where he felt most at home.

Harry had just lied. Harry had just lied to Mrs. Weasley, his mother of sorts or rather the closest he was going to get from anyone at being a mother to him. Suddenly Harry felt awful, somewhat disturbed that he felt fondly to someplace else but couldn't place, or notify where someplace else might be. And to soon for Harry's liking he remembered the moonlight, the alcohol on his breath, the blonde on blue and the… Harry sat up slightly to look around the room in fear of being caught at what he was about to do.

"I will be killed one day." Harry muttered to himself, "Someone will get tired of my antics and severely punish me." And although the idea of it stuck Harry as a bit odd, he closed his mind to the statement and pushed himself out of bed rather reluctantly. Disposing himself of the night clothes he had been in all day, he changed into more appropriate attire and travelled from Ron's room into the comfort of Arthur's private, new study which was somewhat of a closet that had been extended to allow more room.

Inside was like a random closet that Muggles love to through scattered memories into, along with presents received but never put to use and junk passed down from generation to generation. Arthur apparently decided against giving up wholly the Muggle world and clung onto everything he could which Molly didn't insist on being thrown away. Harry glanced over a few items, taking note of the rubber duck, the pile of tv-dinners and excessive amount of Muggle newspapers. It was whilst Harry glanced over the familiar items that he caught sight of the silvery purple bowl he was hoping to find, and after pulling it from its cramped space (and knocking the pile of papers almost everywhere) he took the pensieve from its home and out into kitchen, hoping desperately not to be disturbed as he pulled forth the ragged memories and plunged himself into them.

Harry didn't actually find out much from seeing his thought up close, as it was like standing in a pool of pearlescent liquid of many colours; everything, in plainer words, was confused, distorted. It seemed much like Harry didn't have his glasses on, though even if he hadn't when the memory took place it would have been of no consequence as the memories were not formed only on what the person showing saw, but also on what the mind noted was important in the room. The sixth sense, Harry thought whilst battling though the shadowy memories. And indeed it was a sort of sixth sense, something the blind used to note of objects around them, what they used to sense the emotions on someone's face. The mind had many more powers than most wished to accept, therefore Harry's mind would have corrected the vision, causing it to be as clear as day. Even if Harry was intoxicated, which he believed he was, the memory would only have been slightly uneasy, causing random holes to open in the floor (or rather in the fabric of the memory), or lines that should be straight appear not so.

The stealing of Arthur's pensieve has been for nothing, and Harry brooded as he looked around the kitchen for a glass to pour water in to explain why he had left the room he was in, if anyone came to ask. Its not like he need explain himself though, as all the inhabitants of the Burrow knew, Harry was a man, rightfully by how he was expected to be who everyone wanted him to be. If that doesn't make sense, Harry just knew that he need not explain like a child why he was downstairs, fully dressed and looking rather miserable, like he always had when Draco Malfoy was driving Harry insane with his persistent torture all of Harry's life. Wait, Harry thought, Why was I… why was there something there when I thought of _Malfoy_?

Why was there something there? Why was there the ever looming sense of something important forgotten? It was almost killing Harry, it just didn't make sense to him that there would be something he needed to remember that he just wasn't remembering.

"You alright Mate?" Asked someone timidly from behind Harry, who neither jumped nor hissed from surprise at the voice but merely shrugged at his best friend behind him.

"Ron," Harry started amusedly, "I don't think I am…" Harry took a sip from his water and brooded once again, the moonlight finally making itself back into the Burrow and teased Harry incessantly, before a cloud of confusion swept back over the bright night light, covering the silky powder like circle almost angrily.

"Harry, I know things have been difficult. I know you don't want to talk about Sirius," Ron stopped here for a moment to take note of Harry's reaction to the very obvious discomfort at the very mention of the Godfather Harry lost, however after a mere moment of reflection on Harry's part he urged for Ron to continue, "Yeah… I know Sirius isn't around anymore, but you know me and Hermione are right? Well you know you can talk to us, without us judging you about anything you say, because we know it wasn't your fault and no one will ever blame you for anything you do, even if it is stupid, because we all love you Harry, you know we do." Ron paused at his words, quite surprised to have even said them, but after a contented smile he sat back in his chair, pleased.

"Ron, the thing is this isn't about Sirius." Harry looked up briefly to see Ron's response, but continued quickly to avoid the interruption he was sure was about to come, "It isn't about Sirius. I don't know how I know that because I am not even sure I really remember what this is about, but this just isn't about him." Harry spoke quite harshly, not directing it at Ron of course who immediately took it that way.

"Whoa Mate," Ron urged, "I didn't mean to offend you. Whatever else it could be I wouldn't know would I?" Ron, who previously had his hands up in a defensive manner dropped them, seemingly finished with protection himself as Harry had begun to speak again.

"I'm not angry with you at all, I am angry at this… this memory I cant seem to remember." Harry pointed to the pensieve, "I will not show you, it doesn't make any sense and I think I need to sort this out on my own. No, I wont show you, but the thing is, the memories are all distorted Ron. And from what I can gather there is many scene changes, so it means there is a choppy memory." Harry had begun to sound exasperated, so left his muddled language to Ron to decipher.

Of course, the redhead wouldn't pass up the opportunity to find out the goings on of Harry's rather darkened summer, so hastily asked "Did you get drunk at all this summer?" and left Harry to blush at the prying question.

The thing was though, that Harry didn't blush and instead let his face grow dark. "I remember the taste of alcohol on my breath, but the point is that if I was drunk the memory wouldn't be so chaotic, just a little spasticated is all. The memory that is in there is complete pandemonium, its all liquefied and not quite a memory; more like a distant dream."

"Harry, Mate I think you need a good nights sleep. Maybe," Ron began to offer at the hopeful face of Harry, "you are making things up in your head because of all the restless nights you have suffered from?" Ron stood up, paced towards the medical cabinet in the kitchen and fished around for some pharmaceutical, name brand sleep inducing potion from the cupboard to offer his friend. "Take this once you get into bed, you will be out for hours." He tossed the small blue bottle to Harry who inspected the label whilst Ron went towards his bedroom, towards sleep and towards a sense of contentment at being able to really help Harry.

Harry did as told an hour later, climbing into bed with another sigh of fretfulness, ignoring it as he sunk into slumber not quite ready for the onslaught of not quite seeing what had happened, and not quite understanding why he was remembering something he obviously wasn't supposed too.

'_And even though I wish not to remember you, _

_I will always remember,_

_Why it means so much,_

_That my perfect memory still remains,_

_And yours is forcibly taken; of this day._

_And still with you, wherever you are,_

_Is the faint promise that this day will light,_

_Even the darkest of days you life._

_And I love you, I love your smile,_

_Your touch,_

_Your life (I love your life)_

_I love your scars,_

_Your sadness,_

_I love your eyes, (I love your eyes).'_

By Erica Berker, personal quote.

As Harry stood on the edge of suicidal, he looked around for yet another excuse to deny why he felt the way he had about Malfoy all school year, and how the bastard blonde had managed to even turn Harry against the idea of spending seventh year at Hogwarts and for the millionth time that day, Harry reminded himself that it was because Malfoy had brought the reality of Voldemort to close to home for it to even be considered funny. Scowling, Harry fought off a smirk that threatened to make him look crazy in front of concerned friends; Malfoy had started it all way before the blonde had broken Harry's nose, or even before he had been found being rude at Madame Malkins. The bloody Slytherin had started it _all_ whilst Harry had been at the Burrow the previous summer and being familiar to Harry in a way he couldn't understand, more and more recently associating Harry with things the brunette couldn't quite remember, nor wanted to in some cases.

Like the time Harry woke up, in a cold naked sweat, pumping himself furiously over the dream he had just enjoyed of Malfoy, sitting under him with what looked like the happiest, most pleasured look on his face, and by Merlin did Harry enjoy that dream and to hell with being with Ginny; it felt _good_ to wank so profusely over Draco. There was one thing however that Harry couldn't quite grasp the concept of; why had the dream been so clear? And why had be been able to feel the throbbing of another human being inside of him?

There was more though, because not only had Harry found Malfoy in Myrtle's bathroom sobbing like a baby, he had actually woken up the night after that incident with tears running down his face muttering words he understood- even remembered- but couldn't place where, or from whom he had heard them until the next night where he woke up, crying again and whispering worries of someone named Narcissa being disappointed that her son couldn't kill…

"But when had Draco… when… did he mention something about killing?" And there was something else Harry couldn't grasp; Draco not killing anything, for although it seemed to fit the stereotypical Draco, Harry couldn't quite believe it.

Finally fed up with the nightly interruptions from his nemesis and the one who eventually would let in the Death Eaters to Hogwarts, ending in the death of Dumbledore, Harry began to shut out the continual reminiscing about something to watery to be registered as a memory, but still it was and Harry knew it.

Like the calm before a storm, the weeks after Dumbledore's death drew into months and eventually Harry calmed down enough to focus on Horcruxes and the forthcoming promise of war, soon after launching himself into training and deciphering where, when and how they could get to the pieces of soul Voldemort had scattered around the world.

Harry began forgetting about the pearlescent memories, and soon enough he succeeded. It was near the end of the war, where so many had died and lost their lives that Harry received in the post, a letter that had been delayed by the Ministry for many months. Harry, about to face the battlefield once again on very little sleep, halted in his desperation to finally get to finish this war one and for all.

The envelope made from cheap paper held the faint magical fingerprints (from excess magical residue; leaves fingerprints visible to very trained eyes), of all kinds of different people Harry didn't know, or didn't spend to much time studying. Not that it mattered, the letter would be safe he was sure, so he saw no need to take time emptying the envelope into the palm of his right hand.

All that was contained within the envelope was a small picture which reminded Harry of one of the muggle photo booths he had been forced into as a child by his aunt for documentary purposes he neither understood at the time nor cared about. Not wanting to see the picture side just yet for what it might contain, he pulled the side facing him to his face and looked at the small black letters on the back, reading in great relief of some peace.

What the writing said though did not bring Harry peace, instead a dull headache came on (which Harry remedied carefully with a potion), followed by what he saw on the picture there was suddenly a funny realisation, something began to fit in his puzzled mind and there was, for the first time in months (well almost a year and a half) something like sleep on his mind, (more mediatory though).

With a smile, a shrug and a sense of determination Harry collectively pieced together the last of his thoughts and ran full force out of his private tent on the Light-side of the battlefield, running with a heart made of Lyon-string, a stomach full of courage and a fleeting sense of freedom washing over him; Today was the day he would be free… today was the day the war would be won, he just knew it.

And on the floor of Harry's tent lay the last piece of puzzle. 'Something missing?' It read, whilst the other side held the very true piece of evidence Harry needed; a picture of himself and Draco, smiling into the face of the camera, expectantly hoping for something more than they had, but holding a love no one could touch in their eyes, and it was apparent who their love was for by the clasped hands the held up, linked together for eternity in the picture and by the way one hand folded into another.

And if it was magic, a light shone over the grave of the long deceased Draco Malfoy, who had sent the letter to his one and only, just moments before taking his own life. There were things in that picture Harry would never understand fully, his memory never would fully come back to him, however in that picture there was a million pieces of Draco, bonded with the missing piece of Harry.

And it was all Draco ever had. And all Harry had left.

_Authors Note:_

_This story will unwind, the memories shall become clear and we will learn the story behind what Harry can't remember. It is already halfway written. The next instalment in this story will be called 'No perfect answer to something asked' and will not be put under this title!_

_I am sorry to my faithful readers of '**The Brass' **be patient, I still love the story, but its on hiatus for a while whilst I get my head around it. I also lost my file containing the end chapter of **'When nothing compares' **but I am writing that too, so soon enough all my stories will be concluded._

_Keep reading!_

_Ashes_


End file.
